


This Might Sting

by Guy_Fleegman



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Comfort Reading™, Fluff, Good Babysitter Steve Harrington, Good Parent Jim "Chief" Hopper, Hurt Steve Harrington, Hurt/Comfort, I just want someone to take care of Steve, Mainly comfort, Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson Friendship, Steve Harrington & Jim "Chief" Hopper - Freeform, Whump, aftermath of season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26060992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guy_Fleegman/pseuds/Guy_Fleegman
Summary: Missing scene of Hopper cleaning Steve up after Billy attacked him at the end of season 2. Some much deserved comfort.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 153





	This Might Sting

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place the night El closes the gate in season 2. When everyone reconvenes at the Byer's house, someone's got to clean Steve up.

Hopper walked over to the tub and turned it on, not bothering to set the temperature. If the mirror above the sink and the small window fogged, he’d adjust the heat, but otherwise, he didn’t care. Leaning against the sink, where Hopper had left him, Steve closed his eyes. The sound of the water—fast, muting, and static—eased the lines on his forehead. It was a sound he could rest his mind on.

“Why’d you turn that on?” he asked, eyelids heavier than expected.

Hopper jerked a thumb toward the door. “Didn’t want any of those brats pressing their ears against the door.”

Steve smiled and shook his head. “Just Henderson.”

The water softened the clomp of Hopper’s boots as he brushed past Steve. He, somehow, had retained the smell of cologne through the shit-show they’d all endured. “I still don’t want ‘em hearing words like ‘concussion’ and freaking out.”

“Think that one’s a bit obvious,” Steve said, rotating a finger around his damaged face. “But I get your point. I think.”

When Hopper opened the door and stepped out, cold air rushed in. Steve shivered and crossed his arms, goosebumps running along his neck. He pushed from the sink and peeked into the hall. Dark walls, but he could see a sliver of the living room. None of the kids stood in the sliver, preferring to collapse on the couch and calm down, he guessed. A soft couch sounded good.

The sliver of living room blurred and twisted, and Steve fell against the bathroom wall. He’d listed to the side, jamming his shoulder into drywall.

“Ow.” Righting himself, he went back to supporting himself against the sink. The porcelain had cooled in the hallway airflow and felt great against Steve’s bruised knuckles. He pressed them tighter against it. “That’s nice.”

While Steve contemplated pressing his bruised face against the sink, Hopper found Joyce in the kitchen. White bread and plates surrounded her. She had a peanut butter decorated knife in one hand and the other clamped over her mouth as she cried.

“Joyce,” Hopper said from a few feet away. He waited for her to run a sleeve under her nose and across her eyes before stepping closer.

She gestured at the bread. “I’m making the kids sandwiches. I only had peanut butter. El isn’t allergic, is she? I might have some turkey.” She made for the fridge, but Hopper put a hand on her shoulder.

They stood still.

The kids’ chatter from the living room drifted through the air and Hopper knew Joyce heard it. Outside, the sky was a deep blue and nothing swayed in the wind except the trees. They were safe and alone. The monsters had been dealt with and the time to put the pieces back together had begun.

“Peanut butter’s fine, Joyce.”

She nodded, picking up the jar and scraping the knife into it. A glob of peanut butter smoothed across the bread, but the spread lumped up and down. Her hands were shaking. Sticking another piece of bread on top, she dropped the finished product onto a plate.

“I’m with Harrington in the bathroom,” Hopper said, index finger scratching at his thumb. “His face got pretty messed up while we were gone and there could be more, but I’m not sure. Do you have a first aid kit or something?”

Joyce turned toward him. “Oh my god, I forgot! I totally forgot about that. Is he okay? He doesn’t need a hospital, does he? Should I call his parents?”

“It’s okay, I forgot too. Henderson reminded me. Was kinda rude about it too. But he’s alright, I think. I’d say the worst is the concussion and the broken nose—"

“Broken nose?!”

He raised placating hands. “It’s alright, I’ll take him to a doctor in the morning. And you don’t need to call his parents. He doesn’t want you to and he’s an adult.”

She scoffed. “He’s Jonathan’s age.”

“Do you have a first aid kit or not, Joyce?”

He’d left Steve alone too long, but he’d also left Joyce alone too long. She shouldn’t be making sandwiches; she should be with her sons. She should be hugging them tight and not letting them go the rest of the night and they should do the same.

Balancing the knife on top of the peanut butter jar, she crouched and opened the cupboard under the sink. The hinges hadn’t been oiled in years and anyone within a five-mile radius could tell. The cupboard snapped shut and she held out a yellowing first aid kid. The red cross sticker on the front curled away from the edges of the plastic.

“He’ll be alright?” she asked as he took it.

“…we’re safe now.”

After emptying the ice tray into a dish towel, Hopper smiled one last time at Joyce before leaving.

The living room vibrated with life compared to the kitchen and bathroom. Hopper popped his head in and, though nobody was bouncing around the room, the air weighed less on his shoulders. Kids flopped everywhere—couch, chairs, even the floor. Hopper’s back twinged just looking at the bad posture.

A face appeared in front of him. “How’s Steve?”

Hopper shook the first aid kit as an answer and backed up. The kid, Dustin, followed.

“His face was pretty busted and I think he hurt his foot when we were in the tunnels, but you’ll fix him, right?”

The bathroom door creaked open when Hopper’s back bumped into it. He turned around and retreated in.

“Okay. Well, I’ll wait here. It’s okay,” Dustin said as the door closed.

It shut with a click and Hopper shook his head, still facing it. He could imagine the kids gathering round and shushing each other, taking turns listening in. “That kid really likes you.”

He faced the rest of the room and saw Steve on his knees, cheek pressed against the sink. Hopper blinked. Steve clung to the porcelain.

“Get off the floor, Harrington.” Hopper put the kit in the sink and hauled Steve to his feet, pulling him over to the toilet. He eased him down and went back to the kit.

“Felt good.” 

“Take these.” Hopper dropped a few painkillers into Steve’s hand, wrapping his fingers around them so they didn’t fall. The ice in the towel crunched as Hopper lifted it up. “We’ll use this to help the swelling and I’ll clean ya up, sound alright?”

Steve nodded, wincing as he swallowed the pills dry. The make-shift icepack fell into his hand and he pressed it, at random, against his face. If his face was one big bruise, why would it matter where he put ice?

Moving in front of him, Hopper perched on the edge of the tub, setting his feet wide and hanging his hands between his knees. The brief thought of leaning too far back and splashing into the tub crossed his mind. He leaned forward. His hands found each other and clasped together as he watched Steve, looking for any other signs of discomfort.

“Something wrong?” Steve asked, one eye looking at Hopper, the other hidden behind the towel. “You don’t have to stay. I’ve cleaned blood off my face before.”

Hopper shook his head. “I’m staying.”

“How long you want me to hold this here before you”—he gestured to his face. “Ya know.”

“A minute or two,” Hopper said. “Let the painkillers and ice do their job.”

The running water let conversation lull without becoming uncomfortable. Resting his elbows on his knees, Steve sighed. The thrum in his head eased. He hadn’t realized his eyes closed until Hopper spoke from blackness.

“Okay, let me see.”

Steve blinked the room into focus. The bright yellow floor burnt his eyes as did the stark white of the tub—his gaze settled on the tan of Hopper’s pants. Dark spots speckled the material and Steve didn’t even have the urge to ask about them. At this point, there was a lot he’d rather not know.

Pulling the ice away, Hopper considered the bruising. The chill from Steve’s cheek under Hopper’s prodding fingers gave him a surge of energy. Hopper trailed his fingers over the bridge of Steve’s nose, easing the pressure as he ghosted across more damaged and sensitive areas. He cringed in sympathy.

“Here.” Hopper peeled the Band-Aids from Steve’s face, folding them in on themselves before discarding them into a pile on the ground. “Better.”

“The kids okay?”

Hopper nodded. “Thanks to you.”

“Was just luck none of us died,” Steve said, staring at his shoes. Everyone’s shoes had scuffed dirt into the house. Plus, all the paper and blood. There’d be a bit of clean up tomorrow.

“Maybe so.” Hopper leaned back and stood up, stepping to the sink. Over his shoulder, he said, “Still, I’m glad you were with them. You didn’t have to do that.”

Steve smiled and shrugged. “’Course, I did.”

Whipping the hand towel off its hook, Hopper wet the corner and retook his seat opposite Steve. Blood smeared across Steve’s face, mixing with sweat and water. The towel moved from the forehead to the chin. It rubbed in small circles. Steve closed his eyes again and thought of his dad.

Imagining the man across from him as his father made his brow furrow. No, he thought, dad would never do this. He’d take him to the hospital. Yes, dad would yell at him while he drove and mom would be worrying her lip in the passenger seat. Neither of them would have considered sitting in the back with him.

“Almost done, kid,” Hopper said, holding Steve’s chin steady and positioning it as he went. Careful to not split open any scabbed cuts, Hopper ran the towel lightly over spots multiple times until they were pink, rather than red.

Their knees knocked into each other as Hopper inched closer to see if he missed any blood. The window between them started to grow brighter in their periphery. Hopper flicked his wrist over and checked his watch.

On the floor, leaning against the still humming tub, the first aid kit sat ajar. Hopper reached down and grabbed a small tube of antibiotic cream and a few square bandages. He lined the bandages up on his leg.

“This might sting.”

The smell burned Steve’s nose more than the application stung his wounds. Once again, Hopper’s warm fingers were delicate. Steve’s skin shined with the antibiotic like he was plastic afterward.

The bandages—four in total—hugged Steve’s face and Hopper nodded at his work. Focus shifting from the bandages to what little skin remained visible, Hopper noticed how pale Steve looked. Save, of course, the low shadows under his eyes that could just be bruises. Steve sat hunched in on himself, hands on his knees, shoulders slumped, head bowed.

“You should get some sleep,” Hopper suggested as he stood. He offered a hand to Steve. Taking it, Hopper hefted him up, grabbed his shoulder, and steered him toward the door. Steve bumped into him, leaning his shoulder against him to stay upright.

“Don’t know if I can, if I’m being honest,” Steve said, reaching for the door knob. His finger snatched and curled around nothing, the knob a few inches to the side. “Damn.”

Hopper opened the door. “Then try.”

“But what if…”

“I’ll watch the kids,” Hopper said. “If that’s what you’re worried about. And I’ll watch out for you too. Someone should be.”

As promised, Dustin sat on the floor, back resting against the wall, in the hallway. He’d waited in the dark, watching the shadows move across the bright line under the door. His chin touched his chest, raising with each breath and subsequent snore.

Steve looked up at Hopper.

“I’ll take care of it; you find a bed.” Hopper gestured down the hall. “I’m sure Joyce won’t mind.”

Sending him off with a squeeze on the shoulder, Hopper sighed and waited until Steve found a door and went in. He’d wake him in an hour or so and check up on the concussion. For now, though, he needed sleep. Hell, they all needed sleep. Preferably in beds or on couches—not hallway floors. Steeling himself, Hopper bent at the waist and started poking at Dustin’s shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> Huh.


End file.
